


Shoelaces

by a_nonny_moose



Series: 100 Quote Prompts [18]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: The Googles try to help the Egos with their shoelaces.





	Shoelaces

"What do you mean, you never learned how to tie your shoes?"

"I just didn't, okay?" Bim fidgeted nervously, shyly, under the robot's gaze. He sighed. "Look, Google, can you help me or not?" 

Google_G sighed, getting up from his computer. Bim had somehow managed to corner him, alone, to ask this burning question. Why humans (or at least, figments resembling humans) were so utterly _dense_ , he'd never understand. He sat down cross-legged on the floor, gesturing for Bim to join him. Bim sat, confused. 

"Give me your shoe."

Dumbfounded, Bim pulled it off, laces dangling, and handed it over. 

"Now," Google_G began, an aglet in each hand, "what you do first is tie a knot, like this." He crossed the laces, watching Bim's face for a flicker of comprehension. 

Bim nodded, eyes on the shoe. 

"Then," he continued, "you make two loops around your fingers, like--"

"Like bunny ears!"

Google_G looked at his fingers and sighed. "Yes, I suppose. Bunny ears. Now, just tie them together--" he paused, tightening the knot, "--and you are finished."

Bim eagerly pulled off his other shoe, untangling the laces. "Wait, show me again!"

Google_G sighed. It was going to be a long Monday morning. 

\-----------------------------------------

It was Tuesday, and that meant clinic rotations for Dr. Iplier. He was stumbling through the motions of getting ready for the day, blearily reaching for his coat, head mirror, and coffee. He vaguely remembered stumbling down the hall before a robotic arm caught him and held him steady. 

"Doctor, you seem to be functioning at below average capacity," a voice said. 

Dr. Iplier blinked a few times and took another sip of his drink. Google_R's face swam into view, looking down at him in concern. 

"I-I'm fine," Dr. Iplier found himself stuttering, regaining his balance. Google_R let go of his arm, and the Doctor set off down the hall once again. 

_**WUMPF.** _

Dr. Iplier tripped over a loose shoelace, pitching forward into the carpet. His coffee and the papers he clutched to his chest went flying, and Google_R made a beep of concern as he collected them. 

"Are you alright, Doctor?"

"'M okay," the Doctor said, sitting up, fingers still wrapped around his empty cup. He tried to take a sip, but imbibed nothing but air. 

"Perhaps you should rest--"

"No, no," Dr. Iplier said, scrambling for what was left of his papers on the floor. "I have to go to the clinic, the patients--"

"At least ensure that you do not endanger yourself," Google_R said, with a pointed look at the Doctor's untied shoes. 

"Right, right," Dr. Iplier mumbled. He held his papers to his chest, empty cup still cradled in one hand. He stared at his feet blankly, as though trying to will them into tying themselves. 

Google_R sighed, kneeling. He tied one of the Doctor's shoes, then the other, securing them with double knots. He smiled inwardly at the notion that he or any of the other Googles were evil. Evil? Why, if he was evil, he would've just tied the Doctor's shoelaces together, or not mentioned it at all. 

As Dr. Iplier muttered his thanks and stumbled away, Google_R looked at the coffee seeping into the hallway carpet. Well, he thought, maybe next time. 

\------------------------------------------

"It is Wednesday."

"Hmm?" Dr. Iplier looked up from where he was scrubbing down his surgery table, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Hey, Host. What about Wednesday?"

"I believe it is time for a change, Doctor," the Host said, tugging at his bandages a little.

"Oh, you're right, as always." Dr. Iplier hurried forward to grasp the Host's hand in greeting, leading him over to his usual chair. "Give me a second to find the bandages, okay? I wasn't quite ready for you yet."

"Of course." The Host loosened the bandages around his head, letting the end unravel itself. He heard the Doctor shuffling around, opening drawers and cabinets.

"I don't think they're here, Host," Dr. Iplier said, walking back over to him. "I think they're in the storeroom, I'll go check."

"Thank you, Doctor," the Host said, smiling. Dr. Iplier's footsteps faded away. 

The Host sat in his chair, fiddling with the edge of the bandage. The Doctor's work was always neat and clean, something he preferred much more than his own sloppy attempts at hiding his eyes, or lack thereof. The Doctor, now, was familiar, almost like a favorite book. Comforting. Predictable. Some things, however, were not. 

"The Host requests that if Oliver wishes to be in the room, he should make his presence known."

There was the whirr of a mechanical jump, the thump of metal on wood, and Oliver walked sheepishly through the door. 

The Googles were tolerable. While not as predictable or friendly as Dr. Iplier, the Host could always hear the whirring of their joints as they moved, which made life around them marginally easier. In time, he felt that he'd be able to distinguish between the weight of their footsteps. 

Oliver stepped a bit more lightly than the other Googles, but the Host couldn't tell if this was now from shyness at having been caught, or a constant state. 

Oliver beeped a little, and the Host heard him turn his head to look around the room. "Um. Hello, Host."

"Hello, Oliver," the Host said, smiling a little.

"Where is the Doctor?"

"Dr. Iplier has gone to find bandages, which are in the storeroom on one of the upper shelves," the Host said, hearing Oliver look towards the storeroom. "He will be out shortly, if Oliver would like to make his request before the Doctor is back."

An embarrassed-sounding beep. "F-for data-logging purposes," Oliver said, "I would like to observe the... procedure."

"The Host takes a moment to consider," he said, smiling a little, "but will consent, if Oliver will turn off his cameras."

Oliver nodded, a series of short whirrs. He remembered that the Host couldn't see him, and stuttered out, "y-yes--"

"If Oliver would then please sit," the Host said, gesturing to a row of chairs, "the Doctor should be back promptly."

Sure enough, Dr. Iplier waltzed out of the storeroom a moment later, a large box of sterile gauze balanced against his chest. "Oh, hi, Oliver." Dr. Iplier touched the Host's arm to let him know he was there. "Is Host okay with you being here?"

The Host answered, shifting to face the Doctor. "Yes, the Host is."

Oliver quietly noted the way the Doctor's face fell a little when the Host referred to himself as 'the Host,' and wondered why. After all, he'd never heard the Host refer to himself any other way. 

"Very well," Dr. Iplier said, shooting a glance at Oliver. "Then--" he lifted the end of the Host's bandage, gently, "--may I?"

"Of course."

Oliver watched intently, documenting in mental notes rather than images. Dr. Iplier unwound the bandages carefully, layer after sheer layer, until the blood began to show through. The Host stiffened slightly as the Doctor pulled back a stained layer, and Dr. Iplier froze. 

"Did I hurt you?"

"N-no," the Host stuttered, tensing. 

The Doctor put a hand on the Host's knee as he continued unwinding bandages with his other hand, slower now. The bandages were covered in crusted blood, and as Dr. Iplier unwound them, drops began to run down the Host's face. 

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," Dr. Iplier said, now using both hands to steady the bandages. 

The Host winced, but held still until the last of the layers dropped away. 

Finally free, he lifted his hands to rub at his eyes, but the Doctor stopped him. 

"Don't, let me clean you up first." Dr. Iplier stepped away to put the soiled bandages in a bin and gather fresh gauze and wipes. The Host turned to Oliver, smiling, a little sadly. 

Oliver did his best to conceal a gasp as the Host turned his face towards him-- letting Oliver study the blood webbing his cheeks, the raised, pale scars crisscrossing his browbone, the sunken, stained eye sockets. 

Dr. Iplier forced a grim chuckle, gently turning the Host's chin to face him. "Satisfied, Ollie?"

Oliver battled an alarmed beep from sounding within him. "I am just here for data, Doctor."

" _Data_ ," Dr. Iplier repeated, almost sneering. "I sure do love how _caring_ you robots are."

Oliver let the biting remark hang in the air, offering no comment. He watched the Doctor carefully clean the better part of the blood from the Host's face, scrubbing gently around the eyes. When Dr. Iplier turned to pick up more wipes, the Host gently raised a hand to rub at the exposed skin of his brow, temples, and eyes. 

"Thank you," he murmured, lost in thought. 

Dr. Iplier sent another scathing look Oliver's way before replying, "no problem, Host." With a soaked cotton ball, he dabbed at the folds of skin of the Host's eye sockets. The white boll came away bloody, and Dr. Iplier only shook his head and reached for a new one. 

It was an intimate ritual, this, Oliver noted, seeing the way that the Host allowed himself to relax. Dr. Iplier hovered gently over him, caring as though for an injured patient-- but for the Host, this was more of a therapy session. Human contact. Well, as close to human as any of them could be, anyway. 

Dr. Iplier finally lifted the new roll of gauze, pressing the soft fabric into the Host's hand. "I'll put the new ones on, now?"

It wasn't a statement, so much as asking permission. 

The Host nodded a little, and the Doctor lifted the end of the bandage to cover his eyes, then wrapped it around his head. Even as he wound the layers over the Host's eyes, blood began to seep through. The Doctor wound a little faster, applying a little pressure to the Host's eyes. The bleeding stemmed, he finished the last few wraps and cut the gauze. Carefully, he tucked the loose end of the bandage under itself, tugging to secure it. 

"Is that okay?"

The Host moved his head a little, feeling the pressure of the new dressing. "Perfect, thank you."

"Well, don't forget to take your pain meds, and come see me if there's anything out of the ordinary," Dr. Iplier launched into his usual instructions as the Host slid carefully of the table, taking a step forward--

"Wait!" Oliver dashed forward, whirring in alarm. Dr. Iplier jumped, but seeing what Oliver saw, reached quickly for the Host's shoulder. 

"The Host is aware that his shoe is untied," he snapped suddenly, backing away from the two of them. Oliver had already bent to retie the shoe, and reached for the Host's foot with quick fingers. 

A mutter of narration, and the Host's bat materialized in his hand. He held it between himself and Oliver, who seemed to have eyes only for his laces. Dr. Iplier first backed away to give him space, and then watched with a measure of satisfaction. 

_CLANG._

Oliver skittered back, holding his head, and the Host gathered himself closer to the table, breathing rapid. 

Dr. Iplier intervened, at the risk of only having three killer robots in the building. "Oliver, you should go." 

"I--"

"Now." Dr. Iplier glanced at the Host, blood beginning to leak through the new bandage. "Apologize later," he whispered, giving Oliver a shove, "just go."

Oliver looked back regretfully as he exited the clinic, seeing the Doctor once again bend over the Host. 

\------------------------------------------

"Wilford," Google_B began, sighing, "the concept of 'Taco Thursday' is at best, a malaphor, and at worst--"

"Shut up, robo boy," Wilford said, turning, "and help me carry these trays." In his arms were three platters straining under the weight of a few dozen tacos, each shell overflowing with filling. 

Google_B sighed and took two of the three platters, leaving Wilford to balance the last platter in one hand and an array of toppings in the other. Together, they started for the dining room, where Wilford had eagerly gathered the other Egos and Mark, Tyler, Ethan, Amy, and Kathryn for what he termed as a 'special surprise." (Outside, the betting pool had risen to $70 in favor of Wilford murdering one of them, as opposed to forcing them all on camera. Dark, throwing an extra few dollars in, bet that it was "some stupid culinary concoction that will either kill us or make us wish we were dead.") 

Google_B heard the problem before it happened. After each of Wilford's steps came the slight click of plastic on linoleum. Looking under the platters he held, Google_B opened his mouth too late to warn Wilford that his laces were untied. 

With an almighty crash, Wilford landed face-first into his platter of tacos, the bowl of sour cream landing upside down on his back. The rest of the condiments splattered everywhere and Google_B, jumping back, barely managed to keep his own platter level. 

"Is-- is everything okay?" Bim called from the dining room, sounding worried. 

"Everything is fine," Google_B said, voice shaking with the strain of not laughing. "D-don't come in, though."

He could hear Dark chuckle through the door, and resisted the urge to open it. Wilford's fall was recorded to his databank, of course, and would be mass texted to the Egos later. For now, they had a Taco Thursday to save. 

Wilford got up gingerly, crumbs of taco shell and an ungodly amount of fillings covering his chest. The sour cream on his back slid down, slowly, to land on the floor with a sad plop. Google_B, for once, was glad he was a robot that could control the urge to laugh uncontrollably. 

"We still have enough tacos," Google_B assured him, anticipating a stabbing spree, "just clean up, and--"

Wilford clapped his hands together, looking annoyed rather than angry. The mess disappeared from the kitchen, leaving his hands empty. Google_B huffed. Whatever powers the other Egos had, they defied known technology and logic, and of all things, it was irrationality he hated the most.

"Tie your shoe," he said, looking away from the now-spotless kitchen floor as though it was a personal affront. 

See, this was why he hated Wilford's magic. He'd cleaned the kitchen with a clap of his hands, turning a twenty-minute endeavor into seconds. But now, Wilford bent to tie his shoelaces himself. 

Google_B beeped in annoyance, shifting the two platters in his arms. 

Taking the cue, for once, Wilford tied a knot and sprang up, seizing one of the trays, and waltzed out into the dining room. Google_B noticed that he hadn't tied a bow-- just a chaotic series of knots. 

"Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, robots-- to Taco Thursday!" 

There was a collective groan, followed by the rustling of bills and Dark's distinctive chuckle. Hiding a smile, Google_B followed Wilford outside. 

\-----------------------------------------

Dark, surprisingly, was the last one in the conference room. He stumbled in two minutes after 8am, the dregs of the Doctor's morning coffee clutched like a lifeline in his hand. His aura was painfully loud, filling the room with ringing and waves of hatred. 

"Hey, Mark," Wilford managed to joke as Dark took his seat, hair mussed on the wrong side of his head. Dark only glared, raking his fingers through his hair to fix it. He took a sip of his coffee, and his aura slowly dissipated.

"Well," Wilford began, flipping his butterfly knife open as a pointer, "now that everyone's here, we can start this week's meeting. As it's the end of the week, we should--"

"Does anyone have anything of interest?" Dark rasped, interrupting. The room looked towards him, then back at Wilford, who was struggling to stay calm. 

"We have a schedule," Wilford snapped, meeting his eye. 

"Yes? Well, I have an agenda, Will," Dark sneered over his coffee, shoulders tensing. "And weekly check-ins with the drama queen of micromanagement are not included."

"Excuse me?" Wilford's fingers twitched on the handle of his knife. 

Dark sat back, draining the last of his coffee, and growled, "this is a waste of time."

"A waste of time is this conversation, Darky boy."

The rest of the table followed the dialogue, heads whipping back and forth like a tennis match. 

Dark stood up, aura at full strength. The Host covered his ears. "Have fun with your bassinet of screaming children, Wilford." He turned to stalk out of the room, the Egos between him and the door ducking their heads in trepidation. 

Two feet from the door, Dark tripped over his own laces.

Every Ego turned at the muffled thump of Dark hitting the carpet, every Ego terrified to speak. 

The Host giggled, the only sound in the room. 

Dark, gray skin abnormally flushed, stood back up, his aura suddenly silent. The Host still smiled, and in the tension, Oliver snorted. 

The room howled with laughter as Dark left in a flurry of smoke, door slamming behind him. Wilford and Bim, the only sober faces at the table, exchanged a knowing glance. 

Later that day, Bim would tentatively knock on Dark's door, holding his shoes in his hand. Dark would throw open the door with a sneer that would normally make even Mark back away, but Bim responds with a determined, if shaky, smile. 

"Do you want me to show you how to do bunny ears?"


End file.
